


The Lost Detective

by jaybirdwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Don't do do drugs kids, Drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 06:32:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaybirdwrites/pseuds/jaybirdwrites
Summary: Lestrade disappears, and the famous Holmes and Watson have to track him down before it’s too late.(A Sherlock Holmes story based on the original books and the BBC series. Starring Sherlock, Doctor Watson, and Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have tried to keep the voice as close as possible to that of Conan Doyle. Bit of a mix of Victorian and modern.)





	The Lost Detective

Among the many cases that my good friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I have been presented with over the past several years, there are a few so singular and intriguing that I find my thoughts repeatedly drawn back to them. The following is an account of one such case, being unique on several points, though the most notable being the involvement of our acquaintance, Detective Inspector Lestrade.

It was a dreary Sunday morning at 221B Baker Street. I was having my breakfast and morning tea, which was so kindly supplied daily by Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. I scanned the morning papers briefly, but there was not a single headline that caught my eye in particular. The days had been becoming monotonous in their uniformity, and the lack of cases was clearly having a profound effect upon Holmes. There were many days when I returned from my duties as a doctor to find my flatmate stretched out upon the sofa, staring languidly at the ceiling with a long, thin needle somewhere within easy reach. Occasionally, I might find him composing on his violin, or absorbed in working with some dangerous chemical or other among his scattered beakers and test tubes.

Upon this particular April morning, Sherlock was sitting in his usual seat, intently focused on the pages of a rather thick novel which he held in his hands. Such was unusual of him, as I had never known him to read anything other than non-fictitious works. I did not intrude in his concentration, however, as I was glad that at least he was not contemplating another shot of cocaine. I silently continued with my breakfast and reluctantly faced the prospect of another uneventful day, when Holmes abruptly threw down his book in an outburst of irritation. I noticed by the cover that it was a mystery, rather, a detective story by a certain author named Doyle.

"It is amazing," he exclaimed, at my questioning glance, "how utterly dim-witted this main character - and therefore presumably the author as well - is. It is so blatantly obvious that Mrs. Bremridge is not the murderer in this tale, and the unfit detective would undoubtedly have come to this conclusion if he had simply inspected the placement of the teacup. "

I must confess that I was not entirely surprised by such a statement from my eccentric companion, and had little doubt that he was in all likelihood correct. I was endeavoring to formulate some sort of reply when my thoughts were interrupted by a ring of the bell.

A client!

Sherlock Holmes sprang up from his chair, his expression as alert as a cat preparing to pounce upon an unwitting mouse. I quickly moved my plate aside and rose to join him. He stood facing the doorway, his burning gaze fixed upon the entrance as an unfamiliar woman was shown in by our landlady. She was rather average in height, with hair of a peculiar shade where it is difficult to discern whether it is orange or brown. She wore a fashionable pale blue dress which matched her eyes beautifully, and moved with an air of sophistication and grace. Once inside, she paused with her hands clasped before her and glanced confusedly from me to my flatmate.

"I am here to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" She inquired in a small, tight voice.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," he replied with a courteous smile. "My name is Holmes, and this here is my good friend, Doctor John Watson. You have presumably come to consult with me about some issue, therefore pray have a seat and tell me how I may be of assistance, miss...?"

"Lestrade." She replied, startling me with such a familiar name. "Evelina Lestrade."


End file.
